


dried-up, half-full

by Sanemsie



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanemsie/pseuds/Sanemsie
Summary: didn’t you know that this would end bad, darlin'? didn’t I tell you?---a post season 2 fic





	dried-up, half-full

**Author's Note:**

> SO, I binged BOTH seasons of this wonderful show over the past couple days and R.I.P me bc I fell in love with Brio and THAT ENDING basically killed me so I just HAD to write something to get them off my mind :')

“The riverbed, dried-up, half-full of leaves.  
  Us, listening to a river in the trees.”

\- Seamus Heaney

 

There is an inferno roaring through her bloodstream, a whirlwind of fire that crawls its way from her gut and pounds in her ears. She fears that she will burn before she even reaches him, but, no, he’s standing there, dark clothing blending in with their surroundings, still enough that he might be no more than a shadow. And maybe that— maybe _that’s_ what makes all of it feel so out of place—so wrong. In her memories of him he’s always moving, fingers drumming restlessly against his knee or eyes shifting, always, flickering here or there, taking in his surroundings. Even when he was standing still, he never really was, always a restless kind of energy about him, something bubbling under the surface, the glint in his eye always too keen, always two steps ahead of her— _somehow_  

 

She could always feel him before she saw him, though it's never something she kept at the front of her thoughts and now— _and now_  

 

It thrums through the air, making it thick and hard to swallow and _didn’t you know that this would end bad, darlin’? didn’t I tell you?_

 

She wants to tell him that _no_ , that he _didn’t_ , she wants to scream that he never told her _anything_ , that that’s why they’re in this mess to begin with, that— 

 

But he never stays long enough for any of that and she only ever gets close enough to brush her fingers against his wrist for a fleeting moment before he’s gone and she’s gasping awake, sweat running down her neck, a soft tingle on the tips of her fingers

 

It builds like that, like a slow leak, until she's _brimming_ , like a pressure mounting, until it _snaps_ and so when she sees him again, when she _really_ sees him again, when she’s sure it's not a dream and she won’t wake up dripping with sweat and panic— she feels _hollow_ , dried out, spread thin, and not at all like she thought she would after all this time— _he’s gone, we’re free._ She's, well, _glad_ to see him, for reasons that are all selfish— because she knows now that she didn’t kill a man and because there's some part of her that’s accepted already that there's something about him that she maybe can't live without. Still, it's not gladness necessarily that runs down her spine at the first sight of him, its something else, some knee jerk reaction she has buried there just for him, something visceral, something that tells her that no matter how it ends, there's just no version of this—of them that doesn’t just bring them right back to the start 

 

There's no stillness to him now, as he makes his way around the organized space— _her space_ , and it’s an ugly thing that rears its head then, a kind of possessiveness that might suggest that maybe they’re not so different after all. 

 

He runs his fingers over everything, like he's discovering countertops and paper for the first time and he doesn’t speak, not at first, as they root themselves back in how things _were_ and how they _are_ . _On a clear day_ , so goes the old saying, _you can see last week_ . Time ceases all linearity in a place that never changes and idly, she wonders if _this_ will ever change— _them_ . Wonders if it’ll ever stop feeling _too-much_ yet _never enough_ and maybe the answer dawns on her right then or maybe she’s known all along 

 

“You’ve built quite the empire” he says, almost sounds amused— _almost_

 

And he’d told her once, that he _knows_ her, and she wonders now if that means that he can see it, if he can see how she braces herself for the pain, for whatever pail he has left to give her. If he does, notice, it doesn’t seem to matter, nothing there but impassivity in his features 

 

“What do you want?” and it's not accusatory, its not casual, it's not anything, really, it’s just— “Why are you here?” he’s never much been a fan of questions, that much she knows, and it seems to cut through his mask, like he’s biting back some kind of response, _‘why are you talkin’ so damn much?’_ swallowing it, and whatever she’s expecting him to say, she’s not expecting what he _does_ because then he’s snatching her wrist, pulling her in, and hurling them into the nearest wall in a swift motion that knocks all the air from her lungs. 

 

She lands with a graceless grunt and maybe whatever threat he’s about to make will have more effect this way, with him looming over her, his arms planting to form a cage around her. She waits but it doesn't come, and she feels like she's drowning all over again, only this time he’s not her reprieve, he’s not there to offer her something she doesn’t have, something _she’s good at_ . No, this time she’s drowning _in him_ as he presses her firmly into the wall. She makes a show out of struggling against him but his grip only tightens and the friction of it only succeeds in sending a shockwave of heat pooling at the point where his knee lodges itself in between her thighs

 

It all feels too familiar as he settles himself all around her. The span of his shoulders. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The lean cradle of his hips, pinning her there. The way her nerve endings flare and spark at each point of contact. There's something different about him, too, buried under all that sameness that all but makes her shudder, something harsher, something dark that looms just under his skin like that threat she'd been expecting— _or like a promise_

 

“ _Let go of me_ ” 

 

But he gives no indication of having heard her. His hands are pinned on either side of her head at first, but then they’re moving— the rough pads of his fingers cupping her cheek, skimming the hollow of her throat, trailing down the ladder of her ribs. Intent, searching touches, and she almost lets herself believe that he's checking for discrepancies, taking inventory of her from when he’d last seen her, wondering, without asking, how she’s been making out all this time.

 

But that is a preposterous thought, she _shot him_ for goodness sake, and, in any  case, she’d made that mistake once before— _that’s what I am? Work?_

 

Still, she remembers it, everything about him, how he tastes, how he feels—and it's the last thing she should be thinking right now, coming face to face with the man she’d shot for her throne _but then_ , she can’t help it, not with his breath so warm, ghosting over her cheek, not with his mouth so close, the fullness of his bottom lip jutting out like an invitation and maybe, she thinks right then, maybe he feels it too or maybe- 

 

She has no idea what game he's playing at. She only knows that the lump in her throat is dangerous, as are the shivers down her spine and the instinct to lean into his touch.

 

He studies her for a moment, and then another. His lips ghost over hers, enough that she can almost taste him on her tongue and _didn’t you know that this would end bad, darlin’? didn’t I tell you?_

 

“You never told me” and she's more breathless than she should be, more wrecked than he has the right to make her anymore, _than he ever did_

 

“What's that?” 

 

“That it would be like _this_ ” 

 

And he hums at that, his lips still hovering, still not closing the distance between them “I ain’t tell you a lot of things” and then, somehow _closer_ “but that don’t seem to be stoppin’ you” 

 

There's no bite to his words, not really, but she knows him enough to understand the warning behind it, to read between the lines and he’s right, actually, if only about that

 

She opens her mouth to tell him so— _you’re right, it hasn’t stopped me_ — to tell him that she’s built this kingdom on her own and that she means to keep it, to tell him that she’s sorry or something else, something stupid like _I missed you_. But then he smirks, nodding a little, like she’s not the only one that's learned how to read between the lines. He steps away from her then and she hates just how much she misses his warmth.

 

“I’ll be seein’ you real soon, yeah?” and before she can catch her breath, he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this is a mess, I'M A MESS and I will be until we all get the reunion we DESERVE


End file.
